


Possession

by lferion



Category: Sleeping Beauty Series - A. N. Roquelaure
Genre: Community: kink_bingo, M/M, Possession, Sex Toys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-31
Updated: 2012-01-31
Packaged: 2017-10-30 09:52:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/330428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lferion/pseuds/lferion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nicolas claims Tristan just as Tristan wants him to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Possession

It was an inexorable invasion. A pressing in that filled and stretched and took, setting nerves sparking and skin burning bright and hot and aching for touch. Nicolas well knew that Tristan wanted nothing more than this: the thick, hard bulk of Nicolas' cock in his arse, whether moving or still, cool or fiery, glass or metal, wood or wax or Nicholas' own flesh. He wanted, always, to know whose man he was. To know without question that Nicolas ruled the clench of Tristan's muscles, the welcome, eager, ravenous emptiness of his arse, the unspent seed stiffening his cock, finding release only at Nicolas' word and will. This was the largest phallus yet, bigger even than Laurent, thicker than Nicolas himself though faithfully reproducing the erect curve, blunt tip, flared head and tracery of veins in its sculptured form, polished to a glassy finish. The substance was even a match for the purple-suffused hue of Nicolas' own extreme arousal. Tristan moaned as Nicolas eased it in, smooth and slick, opening him wide. Nicolas was happy with him, giving him this, trusting him to take it, insisting that Tristan feel each exquisite motion, the slow expansion, the weight and texture and building need. To know how thoroughly he was possessed, owned and cherished.

From the first day in the Village he had wanted precisely this. This was what he had been seeking in the castle, all unknowing.

Tristan remembered the sensations of that day with perfect, burning clarity: the thick, cool slickness of the cream sliding on his skin, the brisk, efficient fingers applying it liberally to the space behind his balls, circling his anus, pressing in to anoint the ring of muscle, the folds within. He'd been breathing hard, almost sobbing, all the shocks of the day coming down to this: to be fitted for a phallus, pierced, impaled, filled. First by the slender one, slid quick and smooth inside him by those same brisk fingers, instructed by that light and unmoved voice. Then the almost shocking emptiness when it was removed (and his own cock aching, throbbing, hard and hot as iron to his startlement and barely stifled shame. He _wanted_ this, yet how could he so want something he had never even imagined? And then, more cream, more instruction, and the rigid, insistent bulk of the larger phallus was cracking him open, breaking him in two, appalling and exquisite and desperately, breath-stoppingly glorious. It had filled him utterly, sparking nerves and touching him in a way he had no idea he could be touched. The hands on him then were his -- the Master's hands, hands that promised and delivered nigh unendurable delight. He was utterly possessed, completely owned by Nicolas, and the phallus that so filled him was the perfect mark of that possession. 

Tristan had not know what it was he had, then, as he grew to know more of himself in learning what pleased Nicolas. Had not truly known that what was between them was more than mastery and submission, stern discipline and erotic servitude. Tristan had no words for the band that squeezed his heart when Nicolas looked at him with that so-subtle light in his eye, or the deep clenching pang he felt when he woke in Nicolas' bed with the moonlight silvering Nicolas' hair as he slept in Tristan's embrace, sated and at ease. Had not known that what he felt was love for both Master and man; had not understood that Nicolas returned that love both personal and categorical.

All the time away in the Eastern lands, but especially on the voyage over, Tristan hardly allowed himself to think of what he had lost. Lexius and Laurent kept him from dwelling on anything that was not the present. Laurent was most certainly a Master, even in the trappings of a slave, and his cock, his mouth, his beautifully brutal hands were wonderful in their own way, mastering him. (Commanding him, plundering him, making him feel and do an know things he would not of himself. Bringing him safely through the trials of the sultan's palace and the complicated undercurrents of the voyage home again. But Laurent was not _his_ Master. Was not Nicolas. It was not Laurent that Tristan's heart yearned for as desperately as his flesh, much as he was both desirous and attached to Laurent. Even though it was Laurent Tristan had turned to in his distress. Even though Laurent had answered that need with the effortless mastery Tristan so desperately craved. 

For it had been distress to lose Nicolas again -- worse than lose: to disappoint and be taken from, denied contact but not knowledge that he was nearby. To know that Nicolas was not happy. (Even in the bare and occasional glimpses he was allowed, Tristan could see the unhappiness beneath the smooth reserve, the distant politesse with which Nicolas dealt with the world. No one else was likely to see it, very likely not even his sister, but Tristan felt it in his breast, in the ache in his arse. Not empty, no, but filled with the more than adequately effective and impersonal standard-issue pony-phallus. An ache of a different kind of absence.) Despite Tristan's brave words of repudiation of single mastery and willingness to embrace whatever of the impersonal that was meted out to him, which he had believed and thought true in the moment that he said them, Tristan was not made for subsumption in a crowd, not for long at any rate. Not more than a season in the public pony stables had taught him that.

But now that year was over, and Tristan was restored to Nicolas' mastery. 

Nicolas worked the great phallus in a last inch, and Tristan whimpered, trembling, nearly overcome with sensation, with need-desire and love that welled up from the depths of him like a fountain. There were tears on his face, and Nicolas kissed them away as he rocked the phallus in Tristan's arse. "you are mine, Tristan, and I am yours, never to be wholly parted."

Tristan leaned his face into Nicolas' kiss, tears coming faster as Nicolas curled his long, strong fingers around Tristan's iron hard, wet cock and stroked him firmly, moving the phallus in him again with equal deliberation. Tristan cried out, "Yours, yes, oh yes," as his hips jerked uncontrollably, cock and arse both wanting more, faster, harder. But Nicolas was most truly in control, moving at a pace that was just slow enough to keep Tristan on the edge, not allowing him release but winding him tighter and tighter with each measured thrust and tug. Rigidly erect, every particle of him aroused, desirous, concentrated on the slightest element of Nicolas' touch, presence, person, Tristan was enfolded in the scent of Nicolas' own need, the electric charge of his nearness sparking between them, the fierce, imponderable weight of his gaze.

Then Nicolas smiled, and Tristan's heart stuttered in his breast as Nicolas kissed him ruthlessly, taking possession of his mouth with tongue and lips and breath. The phallus delved deep, twisted, rubbed firmly against that place that sent fire along every nerve, and Nicolas' hand twisted and pulled on Tristan's cock the same way. 

"Yes," breathed Nicolas into his mouth, and Tristan was coming, convulsing around the shaft that pierced him, in the hand that held him fast, bucking and writhing and crying out as he shattered into pieces under the love in Nicolas' eyes, the ecstasy of being so beautifully possessed.

***

Much later that night, after Nicolas had found his own release in taking Tristan, to Tristan's undoubted delight, and caused Tristan to come several more times -- with fingers busy, demanding, delicate and rude; with biting, sucking, luscious kisses that left passion-marks on every sensitive surface; more than once with Nicolas' own proud cock driving Tristan's desire to be taken, need to be mastered to new heights of response -- Tristan woke to a shimmer of moonlight on Nicolas' silver-pale hair, and the perfect sensations of Nicolas' breath on the tender skin of his nape, Nicholas' arms holding him with gentle firmness, and Nicolas' and cock still filling Tristan's arse, nestled soft and thick and snug between his nether-cheeks, aching with happiness and the knowledge that he -- that they -- were exactly and precisely where they belonged to be: together and inseparable.


End file.
